


Kneel

by florahart



Category: White Collar
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, Pushy Bottom, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The things Peter has to do to maintain cover are many and varied.  And sometimes really really good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kneel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zoi no miko (zoi_no_miko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/gifts).



> This is still on the pinch list on Saturday, so I thought I would at least put in a treat. There ain't nothin' but porn here.
> 
> (the request was for Peter/Neal, no mention of an opinion about El either way. Please feel free to assume she is okay with this if you like; that's not excluded in the text)

Peter had wondered, a hundred times, whether he had a breaking point when it came to Neal. He’d found himself in absurd situations (asphyxiation? Yes! Coercion? Absolutely! Getting in bed (figuratively!) with criminal syndicates from New York to Las Vegas? Sure, why not!) more often, and more variedly, since Neal came into his life than ever before, by orders of magnitude.

But this, this might be a bridge too far.

Except for how it was also the only option and Christ, the mouth on the kid. Not that Neal was a kid, as demonstrated right here and now, but still.

Peter tried—really, honestly, no shit tried—not to thrust against Neal’s leg. Not that there was any hope he was going to succeed; there was no room to maneuver and no way to even discuss anything; there were a lot of ears—biological and mechanical—in at least the adjacent room and probably this one as well, and there was a camera almost certainly in the crevice above the file cabinet, immediately apparent to both of them at the same time as they tumbled this impromptu show into a “more private” setting when everything went to hell in the meeting with Grigoriov. Shit. This was totally inappropriate. He was Neal’s boss, for lack of a better word. And sure, Neal could handle himself, could put on a mask of vulnerability that Peter knew very well was a façade and Neal was in no way an innocent, but that didn't excuse what he was doing. 

It had been one thing to jump into this, groping each other like they were unaware of their audience, when it was going to be a quick get out of jail free card. They’d led the man’s henchmen to believe they were fucking at the previous meet, mostly because they were homophobic assholes who thought this made them weaker (Peter was looking forward to surprising them about that) and secondarily because it was a convenient way to avoid the “hostess” Grigoriov had offered for their (ugh) “use.” Keeping it up was _supposed_ to mean an easy way to listen in while they were “busy” with activity the staff found either sufficiently interesting or sufficiently distasteful to be distracted by.

But obviously, whoever had run intel on this, the meet and the building both, was fired. Very fired. So fired. Peter grunted and let Neal push him back against the doorframe, trying to figure out while extremely distracted himself whether there was any way at all to get out of the line of sight of the camera because then they could ditch the show a little and maybe there was some hope of constituting a real extraction plan.

And then Neal bit down, hard, on Peter’s earlobe, and he gasped. “God damn it, Neal,” and froze.

And Neal, because fuck Peter was supposed to be calling him Adam, Jesus that mouth was killing him, did the only thing he could in this context. He dropped to the floor, looking up, and grinned, a slow, lazy grin entirely at odds with the urgency with which he was yanking at Peter’s belt. 

“Adam, I didn’t mean—“Peter’s voice was raspy, thrashed as though he’d screamed his way through the impending orgasm already, and he paused to swallow.

“Oh, no, baby, you know I like to follow your orders.” Neal threw Peter’s belt open wide and went to work on the button. He quirked up at eyebrow—away from the camera because of course he was just that good, then offered a bit of a shrug; he was fine with everything he was doing, and Peter… didn’t think anyone could be expected to formulate a functional plan with Neal Caffrey breathing on his dick through one thin layer of cotton and the mob on the other side of the door. 

Neal clearly saw the moment Peter gave in; he buried his nose in the soft flesh at the base of Peter’s dick, lipping at his balls through his boxers, then reached in and pulled him out. 

Peter made one more valiant effort. “Adam, honey, don’t you want—“

“Next time,” Neal said, as though that made any sense, and then for once he wasn’t talking.

Mostly because he’d swallowed Peter’s dick down fast, the head nudging at the back of his throat and sliding along the soft palate. His nostrils flared as he breathed around the suction, and Peter, Peter couldn’t help himself. He pushed, hard, thrusting as Neal grabbed at his hips and stared up at him. Christ. Peter’s fingers flexed, needing something to latch onto, and Neal grabbed his wrist, directing his fingers into Neal’s hair and flicking his eyes just for an instant toward the camera again.

Peter got the hint and pulled, and Neal’s eyes rolled back.

Which was interesting.

Not that he had a lot of time to consider it, because now Neal was moaning, making these strangled, needy sounds, raw and dark with every thrust of Peter’s dick.

What could he do? He tugged at Neal’s hair again, then waited for Neal to look up. “Sweetheart, do you need to touch yourself?”

And where had that come from? Neal did bad things to him. Bridge too far, lines completely crossed, god damn it Neal. But Neal was nodding, frantic, one hand working on his own belt and the other hanging on to Peter’s hip like it was some kind of lifeline.

Peter slowed his thrusts, smoothed Neal’s hair back. “Take a minute, N…’n get what you need, Adam.”

Neal pulled back, tore his pants open, and let his heavy cock fall out, head glistening and slick, and Peter licked his lips. “Oh, next time,” he muttered. Neal made a sound that might have been a groan or a gasp, maybe both, and went back to work on Peter, tugging his own dick left-handed and working Peter’s balls with his right.

Peter went back to pulling Neal’s hair, and Christ, everything was over fast. Peter was coming, trying not to shout and biting his lip bloody. Neal was panting, jerking himself fast all over Peter’s shoes and cuffs as Peter spilled on his tongue and dripped on his nose and chin. Peter’s dick jerked as he looked at the mess and thought about _next time_ and Neal dropped his free hand to the floor and shuddered as he wrung drop after drop out of himself and onto Grigoriov’s carpet.

“You made a mess,” Peter said finally, fondly, and Neal shuddered again and brought his hand to his mouth to lick.

And yes, Peter was _so_ screwed, because at this rate _next time_ was going to be on the way back to the office, in the back of the car, Neal keening under him and bringing his knees up so high. Or back _at_ the office, working late tonight, conference room, a big broad table Neal could hook his hands over the far edge of. Or at Neal’s place, early, just after a run at dawn, sweaty and slow and followed with coffee…

Yes, _so_ screwed. 

On the other hand, their cover was solid. Very solid. Unimpeachable.

He was definitely going to hell for feeling like that made the whole thing worth it.


End file.
